“Heartily!” said Ernest Maltravers, almost with fierceness. “No man ever so scorned its false gods and its miserable creeds--its war upon the weak--its fawning upon the great--its ingratitude to benefactors--its sordid league with mediocrity against excellence. Yes, in proportion as I love mankind, I despise and detest that worse than Venetian oligarchy which mankind set over them and call ‘THE WORLD.’” And then it was, warmed by the excitement of released feelings, long and carefully shrouded, that this man, ordinarily so calm and self-possessed, poured burningly and passionately forth all those tumultuous and almost tremendous thoughts, which, however much we may regulate, control, or disguise them, lurk deep within the souls of all of us, the seeds of the eternal war between the natural man and the artificial; between our wilder genius and our social conventionalities;--thoughts that from time to time break forth into the harbingers of vain and fruitless revolutions, impotent struggles against destiny;--thoughts that good and wise men would be slow to promulge and propagate, for they are of a fire which burns as well as brightens, and which spreads from heart to heart--as a spark spreads amidst flax;--thoughts which are rifest where natures are most high, but belong to truths that virtue dare not tell aloud. And as Maltravers spoke, with his eyes flashing almost intolerable light--his breast heaving, his form dilated, never to the eyes of Florence Lascelles did he seem so great: the chains that bound the strong limbs of his spirit seemed snapped asunder, and all his soul was visible and towering, as a thing that has escaped slavery, and lifts its crest to heaven, and feels that it is free. That evening saw a new bond of alliance between these two persons,--young, handsome, and of opposite sexes, they agreed to be friends, and nothing more. Fools! CHAPTER II. “Idem velle, et idem nolle, ea demum firma amicitia est.” * SALLUST. *To will the same thing and not to will the same thing, that at length is firm friendship. “_Carlos._ That letter. _Princess Eboli._ Oh, I shall die. Return it instantly.” SCHILLER: _Don Carlos_. IT seemed as if the compact Maltravers and Lady Florence had entered into removed whatever embarrassment and reserve had previously existed. They now conversed with an ease and freedom not common in persons of different sexes before they have passed their grand climacteric. Ernest, in ordinary life, like most men of warm emotions and strong imagination, if not taciturn, was at least guarded. It was as if a weight were taken from his breast, when he found one person who could understand him best when he was most candid. His eloquence--his poetry--his intense and concentrated enthusiasm found a voice. He could talk to an individual as he would have written to the public--a rare happiness to the men of books.